A Man's Own Office
by Escaping Commonplace
Summary: Sherlock visits John in his new office. Johnlock, pwp.


This hospital was damn near perfect. Better than the last one, that's for sure. John felt determined to keep his job this time. He liked having a nice office all to himself. He liked wearing comfortable scrubs and a lab coat, and more importantly, he _definitely_ liked making money. Yes, this beat the hell out of being a G.P in some second-rate clinic. He could get used to this.

John leaned back in his chair, swinging his feet up onto the table. A light drizzle was falling outside his third-story window but for once he didn't mind and found himself perfectly happy and content for the time being. Looking at the schedule that one of the nurses had so kindly posted that morning, John was surprised to see that he had no appointments for the day. He supposed it was because it was his first day and they were giving him time to get settled: Perfect. Closing his eyes, he prepared himself for a well needed catnap. It was nearly impossible to get a good night of sleep with Sherlock-

There was a sharp, unflattering buzz that shattered the silence of the room, coming from the newly placed intercom system upon the desk.

"Dr. Watson, a patient is here to see you." The sudden voice of the young nurse pierced John's daze once and for all. He glared at the intercom system on his desk. John already knew he'd hate that damn piece of technology.

"Uh…repeat that?" John replied, pressing one of buttons on the device.

"There's a patient here to see you, sir."

John sighed. "May I ask whom?"

"A Mr. Sherlock Holmes, doctor."

John groaned. _Oh fuck._ "Send him in."

"Right away, doctor."

John had noticed that the detective had been acting rather odd around the flat lately, as in more odd than usual. He had made John tea _twice_ the other day and had even willingly sat down with him to watch some telly without complaining, both signs that he wanted something from John. But of all the days to have Sherlock bother him about it, why did it have to be _now?_ He was at work! As soon as Sherlock came through the door, he would pester and 'deduce' and bloody observe every damn thing from the wallpaper to the windows and it would drive John right out of his mind.

But as the door _did_ open, John found he couldn't find any words at all - which was interesting in itself, as there was nothing particularly spectacular today about his flat mate, friend and most recently lover. There _was, _however, the simple fact that something in the man made it nearly impossible for Doctor Watson to stay mad at him, but that was normal. He could rarely even form a coherent thought in the detective's presence. So when the two locked eyes, all John could manage was a small, "Come in".

Sherlock did so, stepping over the threshold with his hands clasped behind his back. He cast his gaze jadedly around the room, his bright eyes reflecting the dappled light filtering through the rain.

"Dull," he complained typically to the room. Really, it was hardly worth his time. The only thing of even remote interest was the fact that its previous occupant had retired in his forties after contracting an unregistered contagious disease and that the whole of the building had, until recently, been used as a mental illness correction facility. However, the office _was _mildly soothing and worlds better than John's previous office. They'd had to shareit with an aspiring and hopeless film star, and John would never let him clear the man's desk and "personal area" for his own use. There were times when he'd be in too big of a hurry to conduct an experiment to make it all the way to Bart's, but John's annoying persistence that he "respect social boundaries" and such often halted those plans. Other times, it was simply too much effort to herd John back to the flat before an experiment of an entirely different nature. Naught much could intervene with _those _intentions.

The aspiring film star didn't last long.

Sherlock heaved a sigh in disappointment – or, perhaps, exasperation – at the memory as he continued across the room to stand behind John at the window, one hand now shoved in his deepest coat pocket.

"What," John growled, annoyance in his voice, "in the world . . . are you doing here?" It was bad enough that Sherlock loved to bother John at home. "And don't tell me 'I was bored', because there are some beautiful tongues sitting in the freezer that I got for you to look at."

Sherlock's head perked up and he turned, opening his mouth and taking a breath to inquire as to what their approximate age and elasticity were before he remembered. He'd have to thank John later for bypassing the whole 'John-I'm-bored-well-then-do-an-experiment-or-something-but-I've-run-out-of-materials-will-you-get-some-for-me' routine. It was getting dull.

For now, he shifted back to the window and replied, "I came to see your new workplace. It appears surprisingly promising – no windows overlooking the hall, plenty of desk and table space, moderately well-lit, carpeted floors, a window that looks out on the street to the front door. I approve; well done. Continue with what you were doing. I won't be long."

John rubbed his temples. "I don't need your approval for everything, you know," he grumbled under his breath. "But, I'm glad you like it." He smiled a little. He was holding his breath in the hope that he could keep this job for a while; Sherlock had a tendency to help John get fired. Then again, if Sherlock supported it so much, perhaps today would be the exception to the tradition.

John obeyed Sherlock's request to continue his current activities. Despite the fact that sleeping was really what he had been up to, he proceeded to quickly shuffle some of the papers on his desk. Sighing, he set to work, wishing that Sherlock would stop looming in the background as he did so. It was rather distracting.

Minutes ticked by without much disturbance at all, and eventually John became immersed in his work. His brain switched over from _ignore Sherlock _mode to _efficient worker._ Sherlock paced behind his lover, his eyes lazily moving from John's left shoulder to his right before finally falling on his determined gaze as he pretended to work: Sherlock's little blogger. The thought tugged a smirk from Sherlock's lips. His _little blogger's_ pen scratched methodically against a document, his entire being centred on the simple motion. Quiet steps brought the detective near, inching close to the back of John's chair. His tall frame bent over the other man slightly, face hovering over the top of the chair as he inspected John's paperwork. A faint gust of hot breath stirred the tips of the good doctor's hair.

John blinked and his hand momentarily stopped moving. Such a nice breeze for the middle of winter, he thought . . . but then John realized what he thought to be the wind was most definitely not_._ The window was clearly shut tight . . .

His whole body stiffened and he straightened up into his army posture, but he wasn't going to let Sherlock bother him. No way in hell. He hunched back down and began to scribble with twice as much determination as before. A deep, gravelly chuckled tickled just the fringes of John's hearing, sending with it another breath that brushed across the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Intensified scribbling followed, a hand clenched just that little bit tighter around the pen – these were the good detective's rewards. But that hand wasn't anywhere near tight enough. He needed the imprint of the utensil on those short, strong fingers. He needed to see the red and white marks banded across the digits.

His curly head drifted an inch closer, pale lips descending and parting, releasing a burst of hot air that tumbled into the side of a now slightly flushed neck. Long fingers danced delicately down John's sleeve, fiddling with the cuff, twisting its buttons, and dipping inside to stroke its overheating interior.

The doctor's breath hitched in his throat and he couldn't stop the blood from flooding to his cheeks . . . among other places. It felt good. Oh, it felt _brilliant_ having Sherlock breathing down his neck, his wet lips just centimetres from John's skin. All he had to do was tilt his head back slightly and then they could –

No! John gripped his pen fiercely. He would not give in or show any kind of weakness. But then Sherlock began to _touch_ and those pale, slender fingers played with the white fabric on his wrist, dragging softly against the skin underneath. His breathing became slightly shallower and he swallowed deeply. Why the hell was a small touch _so damn arousing?_

"Your body is coming to expect less." John really shouldn't have been surprised that Sherlock seemed to, once again, be reading his mind. Yet it needed be taken into account the fact that the tone with which the normal deductions were made was now turned irreparably seductive. John could hardly be blamed for wondering whether the pen in his hand would break from the tension being applied to it.

"Your system is working itself up, solely with a few close calls and the help your imagination," Sherlock continued slowly. "The mere inkling of physical contact is giving you . . ." A feathery kiss grazed his neck, sending shivers down his spine. "Goosebumps."

"Sherlock . . ."

After the initial contact of skin on skin, John had thought that the touches would increase, if only gradually; perhaps a stroking of a thigh or arm, or a few kisses to his neck. He should have known better with Sherlock Holmes. No, touches were few and excruciatingly far between, and those that landed he would have pegged as accidents if he didn't know that Sherlock rarely did anything he didn't intend to.

Apparently he intended to drive him out of his mind.

Sherlock's long, dexterous fingers slid softly under the neck of John's blue scrubs. His roughened fingertips drifted lazily across one collarbone, light as air, as his head fell lower still; his curls tickled John's cheek as he shifted 'discreetly' in his seat. The good detective's chin bumped against a toned shoulder, making him twitch, and a moment later he felt a tugging at his neckline again. Sherlock pulled the fabric delicately over the round of John's shoulder, reveling in the sound it made against his clean, tan skin. He nosed over the juncture between his neck and shoulder, down his spine, and over again, inching closer to-

Suddenly, fire blazed through John's old bullet wound, a hot, wet fire banded across it in a wide stripe, as though he'd been shot again. But it was different – far from the bite of a bullet, conjuring up images of a greatly different land than unbearably hot, dusty Afghan. It blew into the air images of sweat-stained jumpers and the rough texture of the couch against over-sensitive skin and blown pupils and heavy breathing. It brought long nights spent on cases or work and the sheer softness of a bed not his own. But most of all, above every physical relationship he'd had with any other person, it brought memories of Sherlock.

And suddenly the detective was no longer near him.

The abrupt loss of stimulation of that bloody touch made John dizzy with want. All control, if John had ever had any at all, was completely gone. He wasn't a brilliant sociopath, no. He was a man, and sometimes a rather simple one at that. At this moment, just the same as any other man, his mind was now filled with only animalistic desire and crude imaginings of the man behind him. John knew what he wanted. He wanted sex. He wanted sex_ with_ Sherlock because god damn it, the detective had waltzed into _his_ office and decided to make downright obvious advances on this doctor and quite frankly, he'd simply had more than enough.

Throwing down his pen, John quickly spun around in his chair, shouting, "For the love of God, Sherlock! Would you stop teas – "

At that moment, his heart simply ceased beating, only to start thrumming twice as rapidly seconds later.

Those gorgeous hands, the ones that had been teasing John only moments before, were now brandishing a familiar piece of leather that Sherlock was known for using on numerous experiments, and it was pressed so skillfully. Right. Against. John's. Neck.

Instantly, John found that his whole body was burning with an inexplicable desire for both pain and pleasure, and he wanted more, so much more. He wanted Sherlock to hit him over and over, to bring him to his knees with sexual longing. He wanted Sherlock to fuck him where he sat, on the desk, against the door, until John was unable to stand or sit for a week at least.

Sherlock looked down his nose at the man, arm stretched out to hold the riding crop aloft with its cold leather tongue pressed firmly against John's jugular, and he read the all-too-clear desire in those warm eyes – eyes that, at this moment, reminded Sherlock more of a hormone-addled teenager than the usual hot tea and biscuits. _Those eyes _were making it damn hard not to lunge at the man immediately. He had to remind himself for the second time that day that he'd cleared up his entire afternoonto do just _this_: drive his lover up the wall with unbearable foreplay. He'd be fucked himself before he did anything in the next few hours that John simply asked of him.

John would have to beg.

So as the ex-army doctor sat trembling in his chair, wishing heartily that his detective would just hurry up and fuck him through the floor already, Sherlock inched the crop down his neck, dipped it into the hollow at the base of his throat, and dragged it over the expanse of his chest. It made a quick detour to poke under the edge of his white lab coat and flip it out of the way before continuing its journey, clipping a rock-hard nipple. The unexpected sting made John hiss with pleasure. It reached his navel, where it rested and did not continue. Confused, John cracked his eyes open, glancing up the length of the crop at Sherlock. He was staring intensely at John with pale eyes alight with blue flame: waiting.

"Sherlock," John panted, his tongue burning at the name. _Take me. Take me. Take me. God, please Sherlock, just don't stop._ "Why have you stopped?" he questioned, licking his lips hungrily. He tried to stand up so that he could touch Sherlock, kiss Sherlock, _fuck _Sherlock, but was weighted to his chair by his need.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock intoned, his gravelly voice an octave lower than usual, if that was even possible. "Tell me what you want. I want you to _beg _for it."

John's face flushed a deep crimson at the command, and he mentally cursed Sherlock for making him this desperate so easily.

"Please," he whispered, "I want you to fuck me. I want you to leave marks on every inch of my skin, have me begging for mercy."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and a tiny, involuntary shudder passed through his frame. He took one long, deep breath. He steadied. And his eyes flew open, that same fire burning behind them, wrought with excitement and passion and love and perhaps just a touch of sadism.

The crop fell, sliding over the growing bulge in the loose fabric of John's scrubs. It poked at the inside of his thigh, making his leg twitch pleasantly, pulled its way down its length, slid under his knee, and drifted down his calf. It stayed at his ankle and shifted the hair there a little under his scrubs, but really John didn't even notice anymore. While that length of leather was making its way down his body, Sherlock was making his way closer to John, and at that point it could most definitely be said that he was nearly perched upon the good doctor's lap. With a long thigh squeezing either side of his stocky waist and their pricks mere centimetres apart, John was bound tighter than chains could manage. Sherlock fisted a hand through short hair and pull his head back. His tongue poked out and tasted the tan neck now exposed, licking up it in long strokes. The proximity of their bodies, the hot tongue upon his neck, and the possessive grip in his hair made something in John finally snap. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's coat lapels, one for each hand, and pulled. Sherlock fell forward. The resulting collision wrought a moan from John that he prayed nobody had heard. But it wasn't even close to enough.

John bucked his hips forward, grinding up against the deliciously large cock presented before him, which seemed to grow larger every time he did so. "Oh", he managed to gasp, trying to tone it down a little. The last thing he wanted was an unwanted disturbance from a nosy nurse, more due to the fact that it would mean they would be forced to _stop._ Besides, he knew better than to rush Sherlock. If John wanted a good fuck, he would have to be patient.

"Show me more Sherlock," he whispered against the dark curls of hair that were brushing against his cheek, "make me scream for you." Sherlock's head had come to rest heavily at the base of John's neck and he was struggling mightily to rein in his breathing. It blew hot down his shirt, serving only to further set John's nerves aflame. He got it under control once more, however, and yanked John's head back. He latched onto his mouth, biting his bottom lip and shoving his tongue inside.

The doctor forced his own tongue against the other's own, intertwining them skillfully. He moaned wantonly as his cock twitched in his trousers, begging to be let loose. John was slowly finding it hard to believe that he could last all the way, not with all the teasing Sherlock seemed to have planned. Perhaps that was what the detective wanted, to see his doctor come for him again and again; John would, of course, be more than happy to oblige. He let his mouth be pillaged by Sherlock, returning with eagerness of his own, only breaking away once they needed to breathe. John looked up at Sherlock as they paused. The other's lips were reddened and swollen, with his chest heaving and irises nearly blotted out with black.

"Please," he rasped, "Please, make me all yours." He wasn't sure how much begging Sherlock wanted, but if it was the quickest way to get results. John was not going to stop.

It worked. Sherlock raked his fingers over John's chest, slid them back to his shoulders, and pushed the white lab coat back off his frame. John pulled his arms from the coat and lifted them as he was let free of his shirt.

Sherlock kissed him once more, tauntingly, and slid off of John's lap. He took up the riding crop, once again grown chill from being on the floor, and lifted it high, watching the shadows from the rain still pattering against the window play across it. He stroked a thumb against the thin leather handle; its texture and color and smell and the sound it made when he wound his fingers tight around it – mesmerizing. Almost without acknowledging it, he was slipping away, losing himself in its sable beauty, but a far-off grunt pulled him back. There his John sat, loose pants tented, torso bare, waiting. Tortured.

Perfect.

Sherlock grinned wide and struck him – hard.

John's mouth fell open and a strangled cry erupted forth, cutting through the air like a knife. He quickly glanced at where Sherlock had lashed at him and moaned a little at the red welt already forming.

"Sherlock," he panted, a sudden seriousness in his voice, "gag me with your scarf." As much as John wanted to be able to shout out for his lover, he knew there too many patients and doctors wandering the halls, and the last thing they needed was an unwelcome visitor.

"Please, just for this part. You can take it off when you actually fuck me."

Sherlock obliged willingly, walking behind him, pulling the scarf from his slender neck to tuck it in John's open mouth and tie it tight at the back of his head. Silenced, John's blood spiked higher with anticipation. He hadn't long to wait before a sharp pain landed on the inside of a sensitive thigh, the smack dissolving into the heavy air. Sherlock drank in John's responding movements hungrily. He struck again, on the calf, before the other had time to recover. Tears automatically began to form at the corners of John's eyes and he couldn't find a way to keep himself from trembling or shouting muffled obscenities into the suffocating scarf.

John felt no shame in the pleasure that came from the pain and wanted only for Sherlock to strike him over and over until his skin stung with bruises and burnt like fire. It was a kink he was willing to indulge in, and was glad Sherlock was more than eager to participate too.

John began to lift his hips with each hit, but found this wasn't relieving any of the tension slowly building in his groin. Quickly, so that he wouldn't tamper with Sherlock's rhythm, John turned and stumbled out of his chair, bending over the desk so that his arse was in clear view for Sherlock to admire. He wanted to reach down and touch his own aching member, but knew he shouldn't do so unless Sherlock gave him permission. No, John would play the obedient soldier this time, and so he gripped the far edge of the desk moaning as loud as he could into the dampening wool of the scarf as Sherlock hit the back of his leg, hoping the change in scenery would be adequate. An appreciative grin landed on Sherlock's face. He marked John once more, right on his arse. John surged forward rather eagerly, knocking the intercom and several papers to the floor. Then, tossing the crop once more to the ground, the detective took a seat against the wall under the window.

A transfer of control – the last thing John would expect.

John pressed against the cool wood of his desk for a moment, trying to return to his senses. Slowly, frustration began to course through his veins. Without warning, he whipped around, ripping the scarf out of his mouth. "You bastard," he growled, stomping over to Sherlock. "God, you turn me on."

John sunk down on his knees and stared deep into his lover's eyes. "You just love to watch me come apart for you, don't you? It gives you some kind of sick satisfaction, doesn't it?" A smirk grew on his face as he quickly began to grow bolder. "Did you miss hearing my voice while you were punishing me? Did you miss hearing me praise you?" He quickly licked his lips and pushed Sherlock's coat back away from his body. "I don't think that's really fair. I should get to hear you voice your appreciation too." Slowly, John leaned down and kissed Sherlock's neck, running his tongue along the collarbone. "I want you. Oh god, I want you _right now_, Sherlock."

As he said this, he moved up onto Sherlock's lap, rocking his hips forward so that his erection pressed into Sherlock's stomach.

"Come on," John demanded, "Tell me that you want to fuck me. I want to hear that sexy voice again." He ground down on Sherlock's hard-on, unable to tell which one of them gasped in response.

"Good boy," Sherlock murmured. "Every detail, executed outstandingly. That deserves quite the reward. Wouldn't you agree?" His hands locked down on John's hips and his own jerked up, tightly pressing their pricks together.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed onto Sherlock's shoulders, nails digging into the thick fabric, hips instinctively thrusting forward. He tugged at Sherlock's outrageous coat, forcing the other to shift a little bit as it was hastily removed. He then began to work on the button-up shirt underneath, getting two buttons undone before Sherlock was grinding against him once more, making John lose his focus completely. He grunted, feeling the detective's long fingers trace the waistband of his scrubs. Sherlock leaned up and kissed him, finishing off his own shirt and tossing it aside carelessly. He slid a hand around the back of John's head and lowered them both back down. The coarse lining of his coat scratched uncomfortably against his shoulders.

"Complacency is tedious," he breathed heavily against John's lips.

"I couldn't agree more," John whispered, his voice husky and filled with desire.

He shared another passionate kiss with Sherlock before beginning to move his mouth downward. He nuzzled Sherlock's neck, ran his tongue over one of his hardening nipples and scattered a few kisses across the pale stomach. His fingers reached up and quickly unsnapped the button, pulling down the zipper before yanking pants and trousers down at once to set Sherlock free.

John shivered and couldn't help but stare for a moment, reveling in the body beneath his. "God, you're beautiful."

He finished pulling the clothing off and threw it aside. He then leaned down, half-lidded eyes staring up at Sherlock, before flicking his tongue over the tip of his cock. Sherlock grunted in the back of his throat, opening his mouth slightly wider to accommodate more air. John grinned and hollowed out his cheeks, deep-throating Sherlock in one go. He gripped the man's hips to keep him from thrusting too hard, moving back up the length, stopping to run his talented tongue over the slit and then sucking the top half in again, making Sherlock sharply gasp. Without meaning to, John moved one hand from his grip on Sherlock to the front of his own tight trousers to quickly begin palming himself. He pulled off Sherlock completely, forgetting the silent rule that he wasn't supposed to do anything without Sherlock's permission, his mind now focused only on pleasing himself. It took but a moment for Sherlock's eyes to clear enough to see this new development, and when they did, they flashed dangerously. In one fluid motion, he grabbed John's shoulders and rolled them both over so that he was situated atop the other upon the floor, snagging John's wrists in a surprisingly tight grasp.

"I don't think so," he growled. "_This,"_ his hips rolled into the other's own, making John's jaw tighten, "is _my_ job."

John's eyes widened with surprise as he squirmed fiercely under Sherlock's grip. He felt Sherlock's gaze pierce every inch of his skin, making it feel as though his body was on fire. He hissed angrily, snapping his groin up to make his point, eyes finally daring to meet the light blue ones. "Then do your fucking job."

Sherlock grinned and ducked south, quickly yanking down John's trousers and pants in unison and swallowing the member whole. Not missing a beat, he wormed a finger through John's hole, slowly working it deeper with every shift of John's hips. It was too much, too fast. John voiced his feelings with a loud cry, his hands reaching down to claw at Sherlock's shoulders. Beyond desperate, he shoved himself down the other's throat, pushing back onto the finger inside him. But Sherlock backed off just in time, slowing his movements and keeping John balanced dangerously close upon the edge of his climax. He pulled his mouth halfway off and started humming gently, circling his tongue around the head. His finger curled and brushed against his prostate, causing John cry out, tensing his muscles and wanting nothing more at that moment than to completely belong to Sherlock. Sherlock pressed it again, firmer this time, almost stroking it, before pulling out slightly roughly and adding another finger. His tongue poked into the slit of John's prick while scissoring his fingers. As John grew more used to his ministrations, he picked up a bit more speed and force.

"Oh, God! For the last time, just fuck me Sherlock! I'm ready for you **now**!" John babbled, his head spinning with desire. He took a long, shuddering breath, tears already forming at the corners of his eyes from the restraint of such tempting pleasure.

Pleased with the effect he had on the man, Sherlock pulled away slowly, smirking quirkily up at John. He planted his hand on the floor to John's side and craned over him, skin stretching over his ribs and muscles flexing on biceps, to slip his hand into the pocket of his coat. He pulled out the bottle of lube, grown cold from lying on the floor, dribbled some into his hand and warmed it between his palms. It didn't take long – which was just as well. John was nearly ready to explode underneath him.

Both hands reached downward and he slicked over his prick. He groaned briefly at the smooth texture. It was chilling despite the warming it had received from the hot temperature of his skin. Sherlock swallowed before leaning over again, member grown alluringly stiff and hard. He took a single glance up at John – impatient, pleading John – before lining himself up. A quick, excited smile crossed his face before he drove home in a single, sharp movement that forced both of their eyes shut in relief.

John tightened and clenched so _deliciously _around Sherlock once he pushed in. For John there was no pain to be found within the raw pleasure that shook his body and made him sensitive to every thrust and touch. He imagined how dark the bruises would be in the morning, how red the welts would be on his back, leaving some permanent proof that he belonged to Sherlock, and how sore this shag was bound to make him. A hollow moan escaped at the thought, his cock twitching in anticipation. Grunting, he wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, pulling him deeper inside, incredibly so, but it still wasn't enough. "Move," John growled through clenched teeth, unsurprised by the urgency and deep tone in his voice. He hadn't realized just how badly he had been wanting – no, _needing – _Sherlock for the past couple of days. It was no wonder the detective had been acting so much stranger than usual and John wanted to ask how long exactly he had been planning this, but for now attempted to remain focused on the beautiful, sexy man buried deep inside his arse.

Sherlock complied eagerly, pulling his hips back and snapping them forward again, breathless at the tight heat surrounding his prick. He quickly repeated it, and again, and again, and it was a rather short amount of time before he was ramming into John so hard he was positive that they would both have rug burns for weeks to come.

With every thrust, the corners of John's vision blurred and his back arched off the ground, now red and burning from the riding crop and rubbing against the floor. His own cock was swollen and leaking between their stomachs, and John was so painfully close he knew it wouldn't take much for him to come.

"Sher-lock!" His voice cracked and temporarily faltered, making it impossible to beg for more and leaving him only with the ability to pant and groan shamefully. John could only hope Sherlock would find this attractive instead of disappointing; he knew how much his detective loved hearing John's vocal praise, especially while the two of them were busy going at it.

Sherlock did indeed groan huskily at this, and he bent down to kiss John without slowing his actions. It was, for once, a very sloppy kiss on Sherlock's part. He first landed on the skin just below John's bottom lip, then the corner of his mouth, before managing to find his target and once again suck John's tongue hungrily down his own throat. This he was _very_ thorough with, so as to erase the stumble from John's mind. Just to be sure, he also reached down and gripped John's prick with a tight fist and pumped it with strong, even strokes to match his well timed thrusts. John cried out against Sherlock's lips, his worry disappearing almost instantly, causing their teeth to clack together loudly and almost painfully. He couldn't get enough of Sherlock's taste, swirling his tongue around the other's so eagerly that his lips burned at the rough contact.

His hips resumed bucking wildly into Sherlock's grip, shifting so that his prostate would be rammed into with every one of Sherlock's thrusts, numbing his body with wave after wave of intense pleasure. He managed to get out a few words, although they were barely above a whisper. "Oh, Sher-Sherlock! Oh God, yes! Please!"

Said god was hardly in a much better state than John, even if he did contain it marginally better. He had been holding himself back to prolong the experience, but John wasn't helping matters much. Sherlock's cock throbbed heavily, John tensing around it as he tried to hold himself together.

"Come with me," Sherlock whispered huskily against the other man's ear.

John nodded breathlessly, his eyes falling closed again. "Fuck! Sherlock!" He felt his stomach clenching with heat and knew he was about to come before he actually did, tightening as much as he could to get Sherlock over the edge simultaneously.

"John!" Sherlock gasped. He lost his senses in the moment of his release, like always, but this time it stretched on for longer than it ever had before, until he felt like he would black out from the sheer bliss of the moment. A bit overdramatic, perhaps, but that could be excused – oxygen to the brain, pulse rate, temperature – all that rubbish. Breathing heavily and conveniently deciding to ignore the fact that he had just thought of his brilliant deductions as rubbish, Sherlock lowered himself to kiss John lazily. "Merry Christmas, doctor," he murmured against his lips. Outside, the rain was slowly giving way to fat, wet flakes of snow.

The older man sighed contently, blushing deeply. "Is that what this was about?" John asked with a tired tone. He gently ran his fingers through the curly hair of the man on top of him, his body warm and filled with post-coital bliss. "Merry Christmas to you too, Sherlock. I love you." He pressed their lips together once more, smiling.

Sherlock pulled out of John with an unappetizing slurp and once again fell limp against his lover, completely ignoring the cooling cum on their stomachs. John, at the moment, was much too happy to care about their predicament, although that wasn't likely to last.

"Excuse me, Doctor Watson, but you have a walk-in and you haven't been answering your . . ."

Sherlock simply sighed at the annoying receptionist, waiting for her speech to catch up to her vision. He glanced nonchalantly at the unplugged intercom system abandoned on the floor and let the small trace of a wicked smile show. John froze in absolute horror, his face going bright red in embarrassment, and he was suddenly glad Sherlock was covering his own naked body from view.

"Oh, God! Daphne!"

Scrambling, he grabbed Sherlock's coat and quickly threw it over them, staring up at Sherlock, who was smirking slightly.

"I'll be out in a minute."

The woman hurriedly shut the door wordlessly, but could be no sooner heard shouting something about John at one of the nurses.

Letting out a long sigh, John pressed his hands against Sherlock's chest, glaring at him with determination, but found he just couldn't stay angry at the man who had just shagged him senseless. He sighed. "I hope you're happy, you stupid git."

"Come on, it's not like she didn't know already."

"What's that supposed to – "

"Besides, she'll be alone this Christmas; sentiment decrees she needed a present."

John rolled his eyes, trying to decide whether seeing a co-worker naked on the floor of his office with his gay lover could really be a present. He decided it was.

"You do realize that this little experiment is going to cost me my job? That means no more dangerous office sex for either of us."

"She'll not tell and risk you getting sacked." He grinned devilishly. "She likes having you around nearly as much as I do."

* * *

A/N: Beta'd by the wonderful Facelesswriter11 (:


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